Rearranging the Deckchairs
by Solsbury Girl
Summary: After an encounter with a Weevil, things threaten to overwhelm Ianto.


**Rearranging the Deckchairs**

As Jack turned the key in Ianto's front door, he was looking forward to a relaxed evening; a plate of spaghetti and "Mock the Week" on the TV. Just the ordinary pleasures of life that so many people took for granted. The ordinary pleasures that happened so seldom for the members of Torchwood Cardiff.

He tossed his coat casually across the banister rail, knowing he'd be in trouble later for not hanging it up, but not caring at the moment in his enthusiasm to check on Ianto. He lifted his head slightly and sniffed the air tentatively, ready with a compliment. Ianto had left the Hub a couple of hours previously to go shopping and get dinner underway.

Actually, Owen had sent him away, dosed up on painkillers and with a couple of bandages across his chest after an small encounter with a Weevil. The Weevil had been less than enchanted to meet the Welshman, who'd been on his way back from the sandwich shop bearing a bag of ham sandwiches and a pocketful of Weevil spray. It had made its feelings known before Ianto had managed to get the spray out of his trouser pocket. Tight suits might look good, but they sometimes presented problems.

Ianto hadn't wanted to leave, but the whole team ganged up on him and forced him out of the Hub to just go home, rest up, forget Torchwood for an hour or two. He'd reluctantly agreed, saying in that case he would cook dinner for Jack and himself.

Jack was disappointed. He didn't hear Ianto in the house, nor was he rewarded with the expected smell of tomato, garlic, onions; the scent of a gently cooking Bolognese sauce. He shrugged. Perhaps Ianto had changed his mind and was planning on something cooked more towards the last moment, a carbonara or a freshly made basil pesto perhaps. He didn't mind. He didn't mind at all. Although he'd never tell Ianto, he'd be perfectly happy to have fishfingers, chips and peas, providing he was eating them with Ianto. And he didn't even like peas.

On those rare days they ate supper at home together, they sat on the floor in front of the telly, eating from trays. Jack favoured a cross-legged approach, tray balanced on his knees, his back resting up against the sofa. Ianto usually lay full length on his stomach on the floor, propped up on his left elbow while popping food into his mouth using his fork in his right hand. Typically, he had his knees bent, legs up in the air, soles facing the ceiling. Jack had seen Ianto's childhood pictures. Nothing had changed.

"Hey!" Jack called out, walking down the hallway towards the kitchen. "'S only me."

He opened the kitchen door, expecting to be greeted by the sight of fresh ingredients being peeled, chopped, fried – Ianto's alchemy, turning vegetables deliciously into dinner. But the kitchen looked exactly as they'd left it that morning, cereal bowls piled in the sink and cold coffee in the cafetiere. He frowned.

"Ianto?" he called, walking through into the utility room in case Ianto was doing laundry or grabbing something out of the freezer. It was deserted. The wicker linen hamper was standing beside the washing machine where Jack had emptied it that morning. The clothing was still wet in the machine, waiting to be put out to dry.

"Ianto?" Jack called louder this time. Something was distinctly odd in the house. Not wrong, exactly, but his sixth sense made him feel uneasy. He was about to check the bedroom, in case the Weevil wound had been more serious than they'd realised and Ianto was resting.

"In here," a quiet voice answered him from the sitting room.

Jack pushed open the door and entered the room cautiously.

Ianto was sitting on the floor, surrounded by a heap of newspapers, looking for all the world like Bill Turnbull on BBC Breakfast News about to do a roundup of the morning's headlines.

Jack narrowed his gaze at the sight of the young man's pained expression. "Ianto? Is something wrong? How are the Weevil scratches?" He stood in the doorway, taking in the unusual sight. Once a week they bought a Sunday newspaper, which typically they put in the recycling exactly a week later, having not found the time to read it. But as far as Jack could see, Ianto had copies of the Sun, the Express, the Guardian, the Telegraph, the Daily Mail, the Times. He even had a copy of the Financial Times.

The papers were open, strewn about the room where Ianto had obviously been reading them. Ianto turned wearily, rubbing his hand across his forehead. He gestured expansively towards the papers. "Yeah, Jack, something is wrong. It's very wrong."

That was Jack's cue to move. He took the four steps necessary to reach the middle of the room where Ianto was sitting. He held out his hand. "Come here," he said gently but with command in his voice that was impossible to ignore.

Ianto took the proffered hand and let Jack help him up and guide him to the sofa. Jack didn't let go. He felt Ianto's forehead with the back of his hand, and was relieved to find his temperature wasn't elevated. So, nothing to do with the Weevil scratches, hopefully. No need for Owen.

"Ianto, what's the matter?"

Ianto looked at him. "I'm tired, Jack. I'm tired. Tired of all this." He looked at the newspapers.

Jack put his arm gently around Ianto's shoulders and pulled the young Welshman towards him. "Talk to me," he encouraged. "You've had a bad day."

"Not as bad as some of these!" Ianto snapped back then took a deep, shuddering breath. Jack could tell that he was on the edge of an emotional meltdown, but he just didn't know why. He really had no clue. When Ianto had left the Hub earlier, on his way to the supermarket, the day had been a perfectly ordinary one. The Rift had been active, but not overly so. Owen had been on a reconnaissance trip earlier, returning with an alien artifact. Tosh had spent the morning trying to analyse it, figure out what it was for, what it did, whether it represented a danger. Ianto had made coffee, Owen had whinged, Gwen had mediated, Jack had watched. Ianto had gone out for sandwiches and been attacked by a Weevil on his way back. It was just a normal day at Torchwood Three. Torchwood Cardiff.

"Did you see that?" asked Ianto, pointing towards the headline in the Telegraph.

"No," said Jack cautiously. "Haven't seen the papers since last Sunday. What's it say?"

Ianto stood up, pushing Jack's arm away abruptly. He picked up the Telegraph. "A banker was killed yesterday evening; he stepped in to help a stranger who was being attacked by a group of youths. They kicked him in the head until he died." Ianto threw the paper back on the floor with the others, then he stooped to pick up the Mail. "A ten year old kid was shot in Manchester on Thursday afternoon on his way home from school. He'd been riding his bike when, for no reason, he was shot by a gang of teenagers. His mother found him; he'd been left to bleed to death on the pavement but he managed to drag himself up the path to his front door. She found him dead in their porch when she went to get the milk in."

Ianto chucked the paper back on the floor, and grabbed the nearest broadsheet at random. It was the Guardian. "A mother drowned her baby twins – can you imagine that? She held her two little boys under the water in their bath. She held them under the water! Then she dried them and dressed them in their pyjamas and put them into their cots. Their father discovered them dead in bed the next morning."

Jack waited, watching as Ianto rubbed at his eyes. There were no tears, though. He was too upset for tears.

"And here!" exclaimed Ianto angrily, "Look at this – a guy jumped from the balcony of his hotel room in Spain with his children in his arms. Both the kids died. He landed on them and crushed them."

Jack sat quietly, watching as Ianto stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by the newspapers, raging.

"Any more?" asked Jack.

"How about a kid knifed in Aberdeen. They stole his trainers. They killed him for his shoes, Jack. His shoes."

Jack took a deep breath, wondering quite how to deal with the situation he found himself in. This sudden show of emotion from Ianto was quite out of character. The Welshman was usually balanced, calm, seemingly unaffected by all that went on around him. He could always be counted on for a droll one liner, but kept his own feelings subjugated, controlled.

"You done?" asked Jack, gently.

Ianto shook his head. "Yes. No. Why do they do it, Jack? Why? We spend our lives fighting aliens, making the world a better place, a safer place. And then these idiots kill, and maim, and ruin the very lives we risk our own lives to protect." Unconsciously, he rubbed gently at his ribs, where the Weevil scratches lay.

Jack could see that Ianto was very upset. And now he understood completely. He waited, knowing that waiting was all he could do. Waiting for the full emotion to come out. He'd seen it happen before, with other team members over the years. Suddenly the weight of it all just came crashing in from nowhere. Prompted by something, by nothing, by something as silly as a Weevil wanting your ham sandwiches, even.

"Why do we bother?" asked Ianto.

Jack realized that the question wasn't directed at him. It was clearly rhetorical. He bided his time, knowing that in a few minutes Ianto was going to need him more than he'd ever needed him before.

Unexpectedly, Ianto sat down amid the papers. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to close out the horror he was feeling. Jack stepped across the room to stand behind the Welshman. He placed one hand on each of Ianto's shoulders.

"Why do we bother, Jack?" Ianto jerked free and walked across to the sofa, kicking the newspapers out of his way as if they were autumn leaves in a forest. "Why do we bother? I lost Lisa and all my friends at Canary Wharf. I nearly killed you and the others. And it's because I care. Because I tried. I try to fight the bad. In the only way I know how. I'm not sure I can do this any more Jack."

Jack sucked in a breath. "Do you want RetCon?"

"No."

"I'll help you, Ianto, if you will let me."

"Nothing you can do, Jack. I have to work through this on my own."

Jack gently reached for Ianto's hand. "No, you never have to deal with this stuff on your own again. You were too alone after Canary Wharf, too alone after Lisa. None of you have to deal with this stuff alone. Not Tosh, or Gwen, or Owen. And not you. I'll always be here to help you.

Ianto turned to face Jack. "We deal with the aliens, we save the world. But compared to the shit that the world manages to do to itself, Jack, what are we really doing? What are we playing at?" He took a deep sighing, hitching, sobbing breath as the emotion threatened to break through. "What are we really doing? Face it Jack; in the grand scheme of things, we are just rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic. Nothing we do really makes a difference."

In that moment Jack suddenly understood. He comprehended completely; he understood the overwhelming swiftness with which the assault on Ianto's senses had occurred. The unbearable moment. The feeling that it was futile, that nothing they did really mattered. He'd been there himself more than once. And it was a dark place to get out of. Alone or with help.

He sighed, and breathed out a long held breath. "Hold on," he said. "Just hold on. I can't promise you that it will change, I can't tell you it will get better. But we can help you deal with it." Jack looked at Ianto, so impossibly young to have seen what he'd seen, been through the traumas he'd experienced. "Ianto, trust me. The job we do is absolutely necessary. It is without thanks or recognition. And no one knows when we get it right. Or wrong. Often, not even we know."

He stopped for a moment, to sink a kiss onto the top of Ianto's head. His hair was wonderfully soft and smelled of apple. Since when did we buy apple scented shampoo? he wondered. He breathed deeply, reassuring himself before he could continue to reassure Ianto. "Apple shampoo?" he queried.

Ianto smiled slightly, he'd been through more emotions that he could quantify. "Free gift, Jack. Came in one of the newspaper supplements. " He gestured towards the heap in the middle of the living room.

"Rearranging the deckchairs, eh?" Jack smiled, putting his arms gently around Ianto's hips, holding him for a moment before guiding him towards the couch again, cupping his chin and tilting Ianto's face up so he could look him in the eyes. "No, cariad, you are wrong. I promise you we aren't just rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic. At Torchwood, we are making sure that, this time, there are enough lifeboats for everyone."

Ianto smiled wearily, and tried to stand up. "Just so long as we aren't the band playing while the ship sinks. I'm going to go and get supper ready."

Jack pushed him back down. "Believe me, Ianto Jones, one day, we will save the universe. That's a very different tune. That will be 'our tune'. But now, just take it easy, you've wrestled with enough demons today. Do you want pie and chips or fish and chips for supper?"


End file.
